


Thirty

by mint_chapstick



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Blood, Implied Younglo - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:45:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mint_chapstick/pseuds/mint_chapstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the victim is still not breathing normally, coughing or moving, begin chest compressions.  Push down in the center of the chest two to two point four inches thirty times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

      The smells of gunpowder and smoke choked the air as gunshots split its heavy wall. Muffled shouts echoed dully through the black clouds and the orange flames licking their way through the warehouse, splitting the space in half as flickering light and charcoal clouds fought for dominance. Youngjae coughed into the elbow of his jacket, a smear of soot trailing across his cheek as a bead of sweat cut a line through it. Ahead of him he could see Junhong, the orange light of the fire glinting off the black strands of his hair. His long legs ate up the ground as he stalked ahead of the older detective, his gun out and at the ready as he faded away into the smoke. Youngjae tried to call after him. “J-junho-” before the smoke invaded his throat and he had to pause, choking on blackness. He gagged, spitting out a glob of black-tinged saliva. Looking up, he could no longer spot Junhong through the clouds.

      The gunfire continued.

      An explosion rocked the warehouse, terrifyingly close to where Youngjae was standing. The aftershocks nearly knocked him off his feet, and he stumbled as if drunk. The sound of things crashing to the floor, the debris settling, almost masked the sound of Junhong’s voice yelping out in shock and pain. A sole gunshot cut through the air and wood splintered.

      Youngjae rushed forward, gasping out Junhong’s name from a rough, smoke-ravaged throat.

      He shot the person holding a gun to Junhong’s head right before they pulled the trigger.

      Youngjae dropped to his knees, his sidearm falling from numb fingers as he took the younger’s hand in his own, taking in his appearance; the disheveled black hair, the sweat-soaked strands fanning messily across his forehead, the soot smeared across his face, the reassuring smile that was just a bit too strained, the crimson beginning to stain the inside of his lips. The bullet hole piercing just below his left collarbone.

      Junhong’s expression wavered then, eyebrows drawing together in discomfort, and he coughed, blood spilling down his chin. Youngjae’s hands fluttered uselessly before coming to stroke Junhong’s sweaty hair, feeling the sandy grit of the ash dust burrowing towards the younger’s scalp against his fingers. With his other sleeve he dabbed at the blood now dripping onto Junhong’s neck.

      “It’s- it’s gonna be alright,” Youngjae choked out.

      “Hyung,” Junhong murmured, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, “you’re crying.”

      Youngjae swiped roughly at his cheeks with his sleeve, clearing his throat and sniffling, the acrid smoke burning his nose. “N-no, I’m not. You’re gonna be fine, Junhong-ah, you hear me?”

      Junhong smiled gently, even as another sputtering cough sent more red spilling from his lips. “Alright, hyung.” His eyes fluttered closed.

      Dread and fear filled Youngjae’s chest. “No, nonono no no, Junhong, open your eyes, Junhong can you hear me?” The younger didn’t respond and his blood-soaked chest didn’t rise as his blood-stained lips refused to take breath. Tears began to pour down Youngjae’s cheeks, blurring his vision. The older detective didn’t even notice as he scrambled frantically over Junhong’s body.

      “D-don’t you dare die on me, Junhong, okay? You’re not allowed to die on me, y-you hear me??” Youngjae’s voice was frantic as he stripped off his coat, pressing it to the hole in Junhong’s chest. He fumbled for the younger’s pulse, held a hand in front of his lips, but found neither pulse nor breath. Sobbing now, Youngjae yanked his belt from his pants, looping it around Junhong’s body and over the bloody wad that had been his jacket, securing the makeshift bandage in place. Pulling the younger away from the crumpled crate his body had been sprawled against, Youngjae whimpered as his fingers encountered the long wooden splinters buried in Junhong’s shoulders and back. He laid the younger down flat on the ground, kneeling next to him with interlocked hands on his chest. “Please don’t die on me, Junhong,” he whispered.

_One. Two. Three._

      Youngjae’s hands pounded into Junhong’s sternum.

_Four. Five. Six._

      Junhong lay there motionless and unconscious tears continued to drip down Youngjae’s cheeks.

_Seven. Eight. Nine._

      Youngjae checked the younger’s pulse. Still nothing.

_Ten. Eleven. Twelve._

      That was enough, wasn’t it? Junhong wasn’t breathing; Junhong needed to _breathe_.

_Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen._

      That had to be enough, right? Youngjae couldn’t remember. He moved, tilting Junhong’s head back, pinching his nostrils, scooping blood and saliva from the back of his throat with a finger. Pressing his lips to Junhong’s and _breathing_. He tasted of salt and iron. Two more rescue breaths and then back to compressions.

_Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen._

      Youngjae was the senior detective. Why had he let Junhong go ahead? He should have stopped him.

_Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one._

      He should have stopped him.

 _Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three_.

      Youngjae should be the one lying here, bleeding out in a burning warehouse.

_Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six._

      Youngjae, not Junhong.

_Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine._

      Never Junhong.

_Thirty._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You did all you could._

_He was bleeding into his lung, you tried your best but no amount of rescue breathing could have saved him._

_I_ _’m sorry, Youngjae. I know you cared for him._

_We all mourn with you._

 

      Youngjae took a breath in. He could feel the black smoke swirling in his lungs, staining them ebony. He licked his crimson-dyed lips and tasted iron and salt.

 

Junhong was never coming back.

 

      Youngjae stepped off the building and fell.


End file.
